She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. Loneliness. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. “One hardly knows—all the time. " Davies reluctantly complied. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard.
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