CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. "All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. Never mind. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. “Eight, Cavendish Square. Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed. "I should be sorry to proceed to extremities," continued Sheppard, again raising the pistol. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. “Ugh!” she said. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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