Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. And the way he and the other men looked at her! The desire was plain on their faces, so many noblemen reduced to their simplest elements! They looked at her sideways, they looked at her backside, scanning her blue eyes and even looking right into her face. It's precisely the same thing to me to bid my janizaries cut Thames Darrell's throat, as to order Jack Sheppard's execution.
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