Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. It was open. ” She stopped. "Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer.
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