Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. “You don’t want to go?” “No. My sinuses are so swollen up right now. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition.
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