And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. “I have been very selfish,” she declared. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. In a sense it alters nothing. Jonathan Wild and his bloodhounds, with a hundred others, incited by the reward, will be upon my track. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin.
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