“Every one. Earles,” Anna said. "You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. ” He replied solemnly, looking straight into her eyes. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. By this time, several of the terrified domestics appeared with lights.
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