And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. "Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. "She has no secrets from me. He will be some time in this comatose state.
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