"No matter," replied Sheppard. It was a haunted place. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. The vast area in front of Westminster Hall was thronged with people, and it was only by a vigorous application of their staves that the constables could force a passage for the vehicle. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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