' 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. Then the long lashes sank demurely over them. Surely he was imagining this picture. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. There’s something about you, a little flavor of Will, I suppose, that makes one feel—good luck about you and success. Denis, did you say? I hope that no one of our friends has met with an accident. Had to. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. Figg?" said Jack, peevishly. Then she looked up at Brendon.
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