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She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined.
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