In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. " "Jack's a noble fellow," exclaimed the head-jailer of Clerkenwell Prison, raising his glass; "and, though he played me a scurvy trick, I'll drink to his speedy deliverance. Voilà tout. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Humph. " "And, so Jack Sheppard has sent back Shotbolt in this pickle," said Langley.
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