Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery. " He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. If they had any idea the concerts he had seen, they would have known the quality of her playing.
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