“I promise, Lucy. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. I can. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. Though a few months younger than his companion Jack Sheppard, he was half a head taller, and much more robustly formed. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief.
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