The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. Thames sprang to his feet, and half drew his sword, while Wood, removing his spectacles to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, exclaimed in a tone and with a look that betrayed the extremity of surprise—"Jack Sheppard!" "Jack Sheppard!" echoed the maid. Then she reverted to the trousers. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. They were filthy after the burial.
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