At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why. And if you mean to use that dagger to slip the lock, you’ll make enough noise to bring ten spies down on us. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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