As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. They had their little dreams about her.
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