A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. I don't know how to explain it," said Spurlock, "but music hits women queerly. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. ‘But then again, possibly not. ” She glanced out of the window, and the distant trees were a froth of hard spring green and almond blossom. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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