“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. But Jack eluded their grasp.
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