That is good. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. “Then I don’t take this as final.
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