Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. ’ Still the girl said nothing. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—to deal frankly with you,—he placed me in them rent-free, for, I'm not ashamed to confess it, I've had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn't been for him, I don't know where I should have been.
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