The plank hung over his head. Jack Sheppard is the talk and terror of the whole town. As he turned the handle, it moved, and the door was taken from his hand and pulled outward by the young footman. "I do," replied Sheppard. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No.
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