The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. The swelling in his limbs had also subsided. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. Detention would mean coming home late, which spelled distraction and trouble on the night of a kill. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think.
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