Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. " "May be not," replied the old sailor, drily; "but you'll find it too stiff for you tonight, anyhow. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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