‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. ' 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. "Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. "Not so," replied Jack, throwing down the skreen. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her.
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