He is in Newgate. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. " He smiled at her as he smiled at death, cheerfully. Shotbolt that if he, or any other person, takes Jack Sheppard before to-morrow morning, I'll double it.
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