The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. ' 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. I was reduced to 170 a fool, for there were many pretty women from all walks of life in that teeming city. “Only married a few months ago and lived out at Hampstead. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit.
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