Her skin prickled. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted 385 XVII.
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