When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. ‘Must be still downstairs. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. I’ve had it, Sheila. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. The blood will rest on your head. “John, don’t!” she cried.
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