“This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. To-night they say he will be conscious. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. In the next box hangs the rope by which he suffered.
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