" "And perish upon the gibbet," rejoined Jonathan contemptuously. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. " "And I'm glad your worship's recognition doesn't come too late," observed the Master. "Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War.
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