“Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly.
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