Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘I wonder why the females of my acquaintance have absolutely no respect whatsoever for male authority?’ ‘Ha!’ came from Hilary. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. " "No. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life.
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