8. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way. CHAPTER XIX. “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. For freedom at least. Paintings sold off the walls. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. We shall both, I hope, live to enjoy our shares—long after Thames Darrell is forgotten—ha! ha! A third of your estate I accept.
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