The thought of beauty became an obsession. 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. I mean to have you! Don’t frown me off now. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support.
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