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"Come to buy off Jack Sheppard, I suppose," replied the fellow. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.

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