" CHAPTER XI. ' 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. Her pa was only the smithy. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless.
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