The decision had been sound. Happy Birthday, then. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle, followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him.
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