I suppose I ought to have been a man. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. It feels like it.
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