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On the way home he was still thoughtful. Sheppard prepared for church. The man himself was not a pleasant object. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. "But be it as it may, he is now beyond the reach of earthly punishment. Wood heard the cry. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard.
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