Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. Drummond patted him on the shoulder. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. I had no idea.
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