‘You have something more to tell me?’ Jack grinned. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. That'll tune me up. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard.
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