Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. "So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. . I asked her to marry me, and she consented. .
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