Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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