"I can do without it," muttered Jack. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. What! mum still. The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances.
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