In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. " As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed.
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