"It is Jack Sheppard, the noted housebreaker," cried Jonathan, at the top of his sonorous voice. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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