Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens. ” “Why?” she asked. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. The second look told me I was wrong.
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