If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. She felt his crotch through his jeans. Just one thing more. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Before the congregation separated, the clergyman descended from the pulpit; and, followed by the coffin-bearers and mourners, and by Jack at a respectful distance, entered the churchyard.
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