“I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. "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. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. Could it be him you mean?" "No. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. I’ve—dreads. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine.
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