Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting.
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