CHAPTER IX. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. “You must not think of me as one. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. Folks don’t like ’em. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door.
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