Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. Before her was a great Gothic portal. By the way, what did he say when he was out of his head?" "The word 'Fool. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. White?” she asked, laughing.
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