‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. “Please stay,” she said briefly. She whipped round suddenly, and discovered the woman wedged into the corner by the window, keeping out of the way. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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