Blood, they say, won't come out. Jack Sheppard is a match for Jonathan Wild, any day. And what's more, I promise to abide by his decision. I ought never to have thought of it. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins.
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