If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all. “Ann Veronica,” he said. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. My will never faltered. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time.
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