With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. McClintock would be on hand to tell her how and where to obtain this freedom. Nobody could possibly find him now.
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