Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. This isn’t the place.
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