Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. They then entered the room, which was perfectly dark. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile.
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