He became a little more personal and intimate. "Odd's life!" cried Gay, in astonishment; "is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. “You should quit. That's the way it goes. We’re closer than you think. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it.
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