He glanced up at the coachman. He brought home her first “meal”, a man who he 77 claimed was a highwayman who had raped several women and was destined for the hangman’s noose. She traced him by his scent. Hartford, Connecticut; she had registered that address; but there was something so mystifyingly Oriental about her that the address only thickened the haze behind which she moved. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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