‘You said she was beautiful. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. But you must promise me not to go near that abandoned hussy at Willesden. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. But he wrote on.
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