Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. It was a dead calm. " "That was my doing, dearest," urged the carpenter; "I was afraid if you saw her that some such scene as this might occur. But she was not there.
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