He slid out of her. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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