” “But what are you going to do—where are you going to live?” Annabel asked. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. He's the only native I trust in these parts. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins.
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