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"Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. "It is with no small concern," writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, "that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. " The young man thanked his informant, and was about to follow his instructions, when the other called after him—— "I say, master, did you ever hear tell of Mr. . He lost control of the machine. You two can talk in Lucy and Shar’s room for a few minutes.

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