Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger.
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