Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. I’ll announce myself. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. " "You need not," replied Jack, in a tone of the deepest compunction. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. .
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