"By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. She twisted her fingers tightly. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look.
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