“Eight, Cavendish Square. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. She opened her eyes. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. " "A key!" exclaimed Wood eagerly. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. Reluctantly she found him beguiling after he had eaten.
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