In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home.
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