If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all. Get out your pad and pencil. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. He smothered a laugh. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography.
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