’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. " "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. ” He paused for a moment, and then suddenly continued. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. ’ ‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. " "Here you have it, my dear," returned the hawker. There was—a service. . "To go a little further. We have to hang about in the interval. .
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