I would not have him know—now—for the world. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. Jonathan, however, still lingered. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window.
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