Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. You got to take the world as it is, and the only possible trade for a girl that isn’t sweated is to get hold of a man and make him do it for her. "Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink.
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