Thus died Jack Sheppard. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. His shouts for help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter.
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