Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. A rock gave way to deep water. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. 150 “Homely. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Enough's as good as a feast of the dainties you provide.
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