Thames Darrell MUST die. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. I will give you all some tea, and then I must leave you for a few minutes. He came down the shop looking for her quite obviously, and took up a position on the other side against a mirror in which he was able to regard her steadfastly. Be seated, and calm yourself. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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