As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill.
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