His glance came up again and met hers. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard.
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