She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Here Jack Sheppard was unable to repress an exclamation of astonishment. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. The gentleman catched him i' th' fact, and we shut him up for safety i' that pris'n. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. She crooked her finger.
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