“All the time he is shouting and muttering. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—to deal frankly with you,—he placed me in them rent-free, for, I'm not ashamed to confess it, I've had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn't been for him, I don't know where I should have been. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. That's a queer yarn. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. Sheppard, he turned to quit the churchyard. “To the view that all women ought to have votes whether they like it or not. You should have more. That’s how things are; that’s the order of the world. Jack Sheppard's Escape from the New Prison.
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