It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of their situation. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Gold-handled, too. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained.
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