It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. God help me. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him. The coachman having received his order, and being offered an extra fare if he drove quickly, set off at full speed. “You need not be alarmed,” he said. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death.
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