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Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Sometimes I take innocent lives. They tried to read illustrated papers in an unconcerned manner and with forced attention, lest they should catch the leaping exultation in each other’s eyes. Returning in moments, Mr.
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