ToC After escaping from the turner's house, Jack Sheppard skirted St. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should terminate his sufferings. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. To-night all this may seem hard and cruel.
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