The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. ” “Much better,” she agreed. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered. But we waste time. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate.
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