Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane.
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