" "And, what good would that do?" replied Ireton, sarcastically. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. “Home, of course,” she answered.
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