He savored the last solo, the coda. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. I'd like to be alone now. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from.
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