Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. And there's your liver. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. “I do not even know who you are. Pausing at each door on the landing, Jack placed his ear to the keyhole, and listened intently.
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