She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. "Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir," observed Shotbolt. Wood's," said the latter, "since I find him at his own gate. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse.
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