"Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. He certainly bore inspection. “You have even her name. Footman or some such. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. And, come what will, I'll balk him of the satisfaction of hanging me. The last Meeting between Jack Sheppard and his Mother.
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