' 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. I never see them, they never even call. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. That is what I’ve had on my conscience. " "Your prisoner!" echoed Jonathan, derisively.
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