“Not much. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. Her eyes flashed. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. He looked distant, irritated. Very doubtful. Every moment. ” “But you thought you could forget him.
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