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“I’m sorry. Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. Sc. I declare I'm almost afraid to go to the door. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints.
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