And Mother trusted him. Some rustic hand had written upon the door "JACK SHEPPARD'S CAGE;" and upon the wall was affixed a large placard describing his person, and offering a reward for his capture. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction.
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