At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. His treatment of his wife is most unsatisfactory. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. As soon as he was certain he should be disturbed no more, Jack set to work, and with the aid of the file in less than an hour had freed himself from his fetters. 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.
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