If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden.
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