Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, she answered,—"I can't guess. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. Gerald’s chest tightened. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be rumpling it. “In the end,” it seemed to be thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect—sound spices chosen to endure—the best! I took my world as I found it. When I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. It's a sorry world," he went on.
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