Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She shrugged her shoulders. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. Get on, do. CHAPTER I. ” 240 “Then I’ll wait for you. Or else I would have finished him. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all.
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