Sheppard!" sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—"Poor Mrs. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. His food lay untouched about his plate. . ’ Reminiscence made him smile. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat.
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