Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. But not today. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila.
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