The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching upon the floor. A nod was exchanged. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. He groaned, much to Melusine’s relief. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. It was still possible the child might be in safety.
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