“Cool. "To me?" gasped Winifred. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. " "I thought you told me that the rascal who has so long been the terror of the town —Jack Sheppard—was in custody. I wonder ——” “London is a huge place,” Brendon said.
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