"Do you take me for a thiefcatcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?" "No offence, Sir," rejoined the jailer, humbly. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood.
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