In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. She was alone with a deadly enemy.
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