I was sitting up, lamenting your departure, dear Thames, when, hearing an odd noise, I went to the landing, and, by the light of a dark lantern, saw Jack Sheppard, stealing up stairs, followed by two men with crape on their faces. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. I knew him in spite of his dress. She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. She dare not risk it. Cocking the gun. Jeremiah Jackson's double.
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