Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. It was as much as I could do to prevent him flying out of the house there and then and coming after you. Too much blood has been shed already. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Sheppard staggered forward. By instinct. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. We WERE thieves. I took the usual way home. To-night all London believes that he was your husband.
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