Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. The old man was conducted to Jack's cell by the turnkey, who remained near him during their interview. “It’s not. " "My negligence, Mr. He did not notice that Ann Veronica was preoccupied and heavy-eyed. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go. ” The girl sat up and looked at him with a curious twist at the corners of her mouth —humorous or pathetic, he could not tell which.
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