Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet.
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