"Jack Sheppard's face is well worth preserving. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. "Oh God!" exclaimed Jack, in a tone of the bitterest anguish.
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