In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. She shot a sudden glance at him. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train.
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