Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. To be no longer with Martha was strange. It vosh plain he vent dat vay. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole.
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