Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. "You're a bold fellow, Jack," rejoined the blacksmith. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. "Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you. " "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour.
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