But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. “What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin. Thus died Jack Sheppard.
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