’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed deeply. She had lost it. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. She entered the last room, his bedroom. She swallowed hard. And, then, forsooth, she must needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery in Wych Street, when you might have done so. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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