"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began.
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