And here against a wall were the plumtrees. Sheppard, anxiously. Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I'm dying to read his life. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign.
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