She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. There are pretty much three types, those that accept, and those who run away, and those who fight. “Ask me nothing. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. The hansom drove off. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident.
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