She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. She caught at the idea. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Warding off the blows as well as he could with the bar, Jack struck both the horses on the head, and the animals plunged so violently, that they not only prevented their riders from assailing him, but also kept off the hostlers; and, in the confusion that ensued, Jack managed to spring over the fence, and shaped his course across the field in the direction of Sir John Oldcastle's. "I shan't sleep a wink while Jack Sheppard's in the house. Imitating the example of Mr. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. No more. I made the pies.
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