How Jack Sheppard got rid of his Irons. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket.
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