‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. “You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. You can give up thinking and leave all the brain work to her. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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