Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. You understand me, I’m sure. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. There was—a service. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish.
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