Thus died Jack Sheppard. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. He had deliberately saved it for last. His eyes were bright with the hunt. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us.
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