Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. “Stop it!. I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all.
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