The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. You were content, and I came to thrive on your happiness. And at the sight something leaped within her. Do you accept it?" "Dear Thames!" "Forgive this ill-timed avowal of my love. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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