“The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered. "Odd's life!" cried Gay, in astonishment; "is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily.
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