’ He threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. The last Meeting between Jack Sheppard and his Mother. He took the first step toward the stairs, and met the restraining hand of McClintock. "You call in vain," rejoined Thames.
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