The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. An unwelcome idea came to him.
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