Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,—by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit. I do not care, but only that you will leave my affairs to me. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic.
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