Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked.
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