" "It is not Jack's voice," rejoined Mrs. I won’t even ask. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. ‘Ah.
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