Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. But a biddable girl. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. Besides, there are greater rascals than Jack Sheppard at liberty, Sir Rowland. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. She felt herself getting into a corner. I heard only after it was all over. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. It was difficult to get right.
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