"Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. " Neither man spoke. It had been very peaceful in the little cave for countless years.
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