And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. “I am sorry that I have murdered you. At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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