“Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. " "What am I to do to earn it?" asked Blueskin, with a disgusting leer,—"cut a throat—or throw myself at your feet—eh, my dear?" "Give me that child," returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. Thus died Jack Sheppard.
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