Thus died Jack Sheppard. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her.
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