Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Mike answered the door while still toweling his hands dry. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. "As sure as one reasonably can be. It was 1582.
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