‘You don’t know the whole, child. Fast asleep, he is. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. Ovarian cancer. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage. When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—to deal frankly with you,—he placed me in them rent-free, for, I'm not ashamed to confess it, I've had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn't been for him, I don't know where I should have been. As Jack appeared to be sinking fast, his fetters were removed, his own clothes were returned to him, and he was allowed a mattress and a scanty supply of bed-linen. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know.
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