Jack looked towards the door. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Her aunt went off at a tangent. Without inquiring into the correctness of the latter part of the story, it may be sufficient to state, that Black Mary was a person in whom Jack Sheppard thought he could confide, and, as Edgeworth Bess was incapable of much further exertion, he determined to leave her in the old woman's care till the following night, while he shifted for himself and fulfilled his design—for, however rash or hazardous a project might be, if once conceived, Jack always executed it,—of visiting Jonathan Wild at his house in the Old Bailey. Gosse took a step or two towards the centre of the room. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. You will not find it else. Sir John stood upon the threshold.
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