On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. “I know. He would be so disappointed. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined.
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