"Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her. Must be plenty of work for you to do. ” He whispered back as he pulled her pants and underwear off of her trembling legs. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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