That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. The walls were of immense thickness; the small windows double-grated and unglazed; the fire-place was without a grate; and a barrack-bed, divided into two compartments, occupied one corner. “What are you doing?” He cried. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. But in that reservation it may be she went a little beyond the converse of his view. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly. “I couldn’t help it. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity.
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