Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. I told you no good would come of it. First, I went to Country Tom's, the Goat, in Long Lane. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. .
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