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9. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. . ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. It was hard to resist. She fell into another depression, refusing to touch Sebastian or call him husband when he demanded it. He has had the whole country searched; but hitherto without success. .
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