Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. She rolled to one side. His manner, however, was as stern and haughty as ever, and his glances retained their accustomed fire. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. My goodness gracious. She would end alone.
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