I waited for her at the back. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. “It’s—private. As sure as he is now living, I'll pay him a visit in the Old Bailey before morning.
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