Sheppard staggered forward. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. " "Jack's mother?" exclaimed the young man. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed.
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