But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. “For instance?” She smiled. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. He embraced her like her father once had. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion.
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