She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. Pretty good stuff, some of it. Yours?" The stranger hesitated.
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