On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he deemed it expedient to do so. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. He is in the care of those who will not leave the task assigned to them—the utter perversion of his principles—half-finished.
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