They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. "You've charged with assisting your comrade, Jack Sheppard, to purloin certain articles of value from a jewel-case belonging to Lady Trafford. "On my soul, yes," rejoined Jonathan. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone.
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