She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. Let us be gone. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. The kind of man who isn’t content with his science, and writes articles in the monthly reviews. "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. ’.
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