” Her voice trembled with suppressed passion. . She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. But it is all very different. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him.
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