" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. How Jack Sheppard got rid of his Irons. Living’s just material. ” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away.
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