No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. “Michelle, it’s me, Lucy. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. You are—horrible. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. Deep silences came between them. They seldom arrive on the beach.
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