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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 saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. “Shhh. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling.

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