In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. I don’t play anything. It was then, I am sure, empty.
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