Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. No other white people within twenty miles. What befell Jack Sheppard in the Turner's House. He was snoring stupidly. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
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