The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. ‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. "Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. “Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige.
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