She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone.
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