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‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. E.
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