" Jack was about to comply with the request, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. At least here she was safe. “Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. “My Mom never gets a good night’s sleep. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. Their example was immediately imitated by the officers, constables, javelin men, and other attendants; and nothing was to be heard but shouts of laughter and jesting,—nothing seen but the passing of glasses, and the emptying of foaming jugs. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. “This is the slavery of the veiled life.
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