Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man.
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