Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. And let us go on with our evening. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Prudence reminded him that he was a county magistrate, and parliamentary candidate for a somewhat difficult borough, where his principal supporters were dissenters of strict principles who took a zealous interest in his moral character. But then the features changed. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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