" "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. Have you seen much of her lately?” “Nothing at all,” he answered.
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