Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure. A deep silence, however, now prevailed, broken only by the tolling of the bells of Newgate and St. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. You heard her. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. “As it is doubtful whether the man will live, we should be glad if you would identify him. "Odd's life!" cried Gay, in astonishment; "is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. "Adieu, my worthy uncle. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. I really must leave you now.
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