At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. . She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. She trembled; but she did not know why. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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