"Oh!" she gasped. " "Can I not carry you where you can obtain help?" cried Jack in a agony of distress. I’d ruin the things if I so much as touched one. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. What has become of the other?" "Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?" cried the woollen-draper in surprise. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project.
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