She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. "By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. " "It was Blueskin," observed Jack. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Families had seen their lands seized, their chateaux ransacked or burned, and those unlucky enough to have failed to anticipate disaster, had been murdered or dragged away to gaol. Of course there were goats.
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