But this was important. "We never suffer him to mention Mr. 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. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. Sheppard had been interred. She had not at first the power for concealment. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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