"Well, good night, Mr. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. Anything. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she.
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