He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. " "You'd better send him," jeered the turnkey. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. " So saying, she planted herself between Jack and the turnkey. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ” “But does it correspond with the facts of the case? You know, Mr.
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