"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. Her fingers rested upon his. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. " "Indeed!—who is it?" "Jack Sheppard. “You have forgotten. ” “I will tell her,” Anna promised. There’s a hansom coming round the corner. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it.
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