If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. “There’s twenty before you, and Mr. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest.
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