There stepped forth a tall brown man. Guns were impossible. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. He must be gone to dispose of the body. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. That is why I came to London.
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