Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Wagstaff. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. I swear it. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. “They’d better not,” said Hetty. Here her strength completely failed her, and she was compelled to seek some repose.
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