Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Your aunt liked the pheasant. A bumper round, gentlemen. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands.
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