"It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. The Dawn Pearl.
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