If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. He will wish to have his fears laid to rest. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood.
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