He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. " Many wrinkles appeared at the corners of Ah Cum's slant eyes—as if the sun hurt—but the rest of his face remained as passive as a graven Buddha's. "We'll give them the slip yet, and hang that butcherly thief-taker upon his own gibbet. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance.
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