’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man.
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