Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. It was a brief solitude, however. To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and laughter bubbled into his throat. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. Her head ached with a hollow pain. With a curt command to her cavalier to get up on the box and give the direction to the interested coachman, he jumped in beside the girl and shut them both into privacy. Only promise me this. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all. You guys don’t fool around, that was one big Thanksgiving dinner.
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