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Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. The weather harmonized with their feelings. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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