He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. "Here I am, Captain," cried a voice from without. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back.
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