Wood the carpenter. You must know that. Why did I not realise it at once? It just shows how one should not judge by appearances. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica.
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