' 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. She awoke at 11:12 am, her foster sister snoring in the bed across the room. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade.
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