Now there is none. For a space he rode the whirligig. Striking out his foot, he knocked half a dozen teeth down the janizary's throat; and, seconding the kick with a blow on the head from the butt-end of the pistol, stretched him, senseless and bleeding on the ground. And then her pace slackened. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage.
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