The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. "You know this is a pet project. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. "I am no murderer," replied Sheppard. Sheppard, vainly trying to discover a gleam of compassion in the thief-taker's inexorable countenance,—"Mercy! mercy!" "Pshaw!" rejoined Jonathan. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
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