Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “How did you find me?” He asked. Still, they bob up occasionally. Wood heard the cry. After you went he got up and took refuge in the preparation-room. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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