Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. I don't care how lonesome it is. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. He was caressing an idea. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. ‘Again you seek to interfere in my affairs?’ ‘I did warn you I had every intention of doing so,’ said Gerald.
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