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. I will light the stove, and there shall be some coffee presently. All his dreams shattered in an instant. But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. .
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