"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Without inquiring into the correctness of the latter part of the story, it may be sufficient to state, that Black Mary was a person in whom Jack Sheppard thought he could confide, and, as Edgeworth Bess was incapable of much further exertion, he determined to leave her in the old woman's care till the following night, while he shifted for himself and fulfilled his design—for, however rash or hazardous a project might be, if once conceived, Jack always executed it,—of visiting Jonathan Wild at his house in the Old Bailey. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. And he did not lack courage. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness.
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