F. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. "And now, Sir," he said, preparing to take his departure, "will you add to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can meet with Mr. Did you realize?\" Lucy's mouth twisted into a half-smile that she could not help. Wood.
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