" "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. . Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. “I am perfectly certain that that man meant to be rude to me. “How will you live?” she appealed. I hated the stuff. Don't be frightened of her.
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