Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent's tenderness. But, let's see the prisoner. What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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