But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. "Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the Earl of Mar. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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