My death, probably. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. ‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. She had to explain about and pay off that forty pounds. " "Well, Sir," gasped Mrs.
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