"I can," replied Trenchard. “I’m only arguing against your position of what a woman should be, and trying to get it clear in my own mind. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. “When did you start?” She said between puffs. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ' 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.
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