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. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She was silent. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. They went down the great staircase of the building, and, while she sought in her mind for a beginning, he broke into appreciation of her simple dress and selfcongratulations upon their engagement. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. ‘Ah, trying to be the young hero, I take it, which is why he near got hisself killed. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had.
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