Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. " The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. . "I'm going back for Ruth. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal.
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