Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. When he was up and about, the idea of flight would return. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. I know nothing about this affair, but some one has been burning documents. I wish nothing at all from them.
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