It was a clear, lovely, October morning. Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I'm dying to read his life. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning. I was extremely subtle—in fact, as devious as Melusine. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father.
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