Sheppard," cried the carpenter's wife bitterly; "and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her. " "You don't remember your mother?" "Oh, no; she died when I was very little. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. I'll think no more about her. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. “I ought never have gone to the Zoo, I suppose. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life.
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