In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. "Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. Then it dawned. Wild will hang me. You say you need a man. “You can keep him at arm’s length. 276 He opened the box. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. “Splendid it must be to be a composer.
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