Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. Gerald watched its approach with vague interest, which quickened when he saw that it was drawing up outside the very house out of which he had just stepped. It was something you were supposed to return, so she raced through all the television shows that she had watched over the years.
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