Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. Mr. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. Independently of other risks, and of the chance of breaking his neck in the descent, he was aware that to reach the leads he should have to break open six of the strongest doors of the prison. I spied a small picture of them in your house, though. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation.
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