How Jack Sheppard got rid of his Irons. "There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. Sheppard, with a look, the wildness of which greatly alarmed her companion. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son.
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