But there was a face pressed to the glass. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. Thus died Jack Sheppard. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. One called her very distinctly “My dear!” Two secretarial posts did indeed seem to offer themselves in which, at least, there was no specific exclusion of womanhood; one was under a Radical Member of Parliament, and the other under a Harley Street doctor, and both men declined her proffered services with the utmost civility and admiration and terror. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts.
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