Her lips were dry and cracked. "Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. Besides, there are greater rascals than Jack Sheppard at liberty, Sir Rowland. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain.
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