And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. F. He’s dead. Her heart swelled to suffocation. ‘Yes, miss. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. What are you to do with a mad mother at a time when you need all your wits to take care of yourself?" "Don't concern yourself further about me," returned Jack.
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