At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm. It was now a quarter past twelve. She laughed a little contemptuously. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She was the consummate mother, even when extremely tired, she missed nothing. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so.
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