In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major. Do you expect me, I wonder. Damn! I’ve splashed. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. But I may yet live to thwart them.
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