He was nearly wincing. ‘It is to say goodbye, you understand. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. ’ She thrust him out of the room and made for the stairs. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. She would have been amazed if John was even aware of any one of the incidents. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes.
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