She crooked her finger. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. "Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all this time.
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