In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. He looked no longer at his wife. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. It’s artificially chance. To—to find myself. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey.
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