” For a moment Mr. "A hundred guineas if you hang Jack Sheppard. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. Old London Bridge. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. But Jack did not heed them.
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