Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. "Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. The hurricane had now reached its climax.
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