"From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned are taken to Tyburn. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. The pistol, it was not loaded. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily.
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