"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Hist!" cried he, as a scream was heard from without. Sheppard's ward, Sir. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. He offered me at once an engagement. "I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.
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