Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. My late husband, I mean. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he deemed it expedient to do so.
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