It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. “It was a phase,” she said. She looked stealthily at Anna. “We can be alone?” She inquired. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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