" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. ' 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. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. ‘That is good.
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