"Sign this," he said, pushing the document towards Sir Rowland. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. "Would I had never seen either of you!" cried Jack, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. Such of his features as were visible were of coarse mould. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him.
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