"Odd's life!" cried Gay, in astonishment; "is this slight-made stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg. “I say, Vee. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. ” “I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me,” she said good-humouredly. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world.
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