In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. It was a letter. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you.
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