‘I want a word with you, my lad. Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. I had a vague sort of idea that this was the region where one finds apartments, so I told my cabman to drive in this direction while I sat inside his vehicle and endeavoured to form a plan of campaign. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. I didn’t understand. Stanley, at the door.
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