She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. Lucy howled as tooth met bone, her arm clamped in the trap of Rhea’s huge canines.
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