“Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. Thus died Jack Sheppard.
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