The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Her confession was still unmade. "I am content," said Jack. Jack's friends were allowed to visit him,; but as he had openly avowed his intention of attempting an escape, their proceedings were narrowly watched. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. "Victoria; that's the hotel. Marines. Melusine dashed them away, but they kept on coming. The manager conceded that he saw, that his original diagnosis was at fault. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard.
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