If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. There was a strange quality of steel in this pretty creature. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible.
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