The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. "Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. But, taking the chisel from Blueskin, Jack quickly forced back the bolt. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks.
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