XII JACK SHEPPARD A Romance BY W. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. ’ He received a glare from his captive. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. Wild, he asserted, had robbed him of a large sum of money, and till it was restored he would never plead.
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