' 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. "Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’ ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all. " And seizing her by the hair, he pulled back her head, and drew the knife with all his force across her throat. ‘I went to see him because I thought he ought to know about you, having already been imposed upon by our friend Gosse. Now tell me, if you can, something about the man who calls himself Valade. ’ She giggled suddenly.
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