‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. From her stomacher, to which it was attached by a multitude of glittering steel chains, depended an immense turnip-shaped watch, in a pinchbeck case. Here we are. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. “Lord!” she said.
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