Sir John once more looked around him. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. "Ruth?" he called.
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