Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. "Once in this chair, yer hon'r, and I'll warrant he'll not get out so aisily as Jack Sheppard did from the New Pris'n. ’ ‘Why must you?’ asked Gerald calmly. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. E. Murder had become nothing to her.
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