Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. XII JACK SHEPPARD A Romance BY W. Come along home, Ruth. Everyone has gone away again, so that I can do so all alone. Still, one has to be reasonable. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly.
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