"I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. Father— dead. In your heart you know quite well that all that you have said is useless. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. And, stretching out his hand, he lifted the dark object from the flood. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked.
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