And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He thought he heard a scraping sound as he turned the handle. "How!" exclaimed Sheppard. ” Anna looked at her steadily. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent.
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