“Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. “I want to have no distractions. ' 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. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. "Can't you speak?" "I don't choose," replied Thames, sturdily; "and your brutality shan't make me. .
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