Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. No more scuffling. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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