Jack instantly started to his feet, and the man, alarmed at his appearance, ran off to a neighbouring house. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. On that morning the death warrant had arrived from Windsor, ordering Sheppard for execution, (since his capture by Jonathan Wild in Bedlam, as related in a former chapter, Jack had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death,) together with three other malefactors on the following Friday. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. It feels like it.
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