" "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. Then she went below. They had their little dreams about her. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. At least until we graduate.
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