" "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. " "Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. "I am utterly lost. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple.
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