"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. His eyes never left her face. .
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