“The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford.
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