"Is this Jack Sheppard? Oh, la! I'm undone! We shall all have our throats cut! Oh! oh!" And she rushed, screaming, into the passage where she fell down in a fit. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. They are all at prayer at this hour. A very small settlement, mostly natives.
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