They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. "Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. “And now, look at us! See what we have become. It's my way when I'm ruffled. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. Smith had never seen anything like it.
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