Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. I forget. “Go on,” he said. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. No further responsibility whatever.
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