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. “Generally gets here about seven. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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