What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. ' 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.
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