Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. "Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir," observed Shotbolt. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast.
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