Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. —Sorry to quit your lord—worships, I mean,—I don't know what I mean," she added, a little confused, and dropping a profound curtsey to the disguised noblemen, each of whom replied by a bow, worthy, in her opinion, of a prince of the blood at the least,—"but I've a few necessary orders to give below. Then go and fetch this daughter of yourn. You’re of age— you’re of age. Not so Gosse.
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