A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. F. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud.
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