Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. He may die. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. An old woman took her in. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. The last Meeting between Jack Sheppard and his Mother 419 XXIV.
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