She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. "Do not go near him, mother," cried Jack; "do not believe him. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. "Where are you going?" cried Thames, who, though wholly disencumbered, was scarcely able to keep up with him.
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