” He replied. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. It is not a dissipated face. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. “But about last night. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. "I am no murderer," replied Sheppard.
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