“Well!” she declared good-humouredly. Must be plenty of work for you to do. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. Besides, there are greater rascals than Jack Sheppard at liberty, Sir Rowland. The gallows has groaned for him for years. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. His condition is not unfavourable, but there may be a relapse at any moment. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him.
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