"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom.
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