’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. "Jack Sheppard failed! I'd not believe it, if any one but himself told me so. She passed people in the streets and regarded them with a quickening apprehension, once or twice came girls dressed in slatternly finery, going toward Regent Street from out these places. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine.
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