” She shivered. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession.
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