"Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. He removed his cocked hat and came towards her. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery.
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