Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost. "This must be prevented," he added to himself. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. It’s not you—not a bit. Those were dreams. "I've been to all the flash cases in town, and can hear nothing of him or his wives.
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