Before leaving the place he looked upwards, and could just discern the blue vault and pale stars of Heaven through an iron grating at the top. Jonathan Wild brought him off. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. "What's the matter?" he cried. "Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as much mine as yours, for that matter. “I don’t think I shall. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Quite right.
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