’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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