' 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. She struggled not to be afraid. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. But for now, I’d like to turn in, if you don’t mind. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess.
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