"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. It was good to kiss you, even at the price.
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