"You'll not be offended, I hope," returned Wood, drily, "if I say that your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described. " "Indeed!—who is it?" "Jack Sheppard. Not very long, if you want to get well. "Don't fire," cried the latter. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. I wonder——” He turned slowly round. What a God-forsaken fool he was! And dimly, out there somewhere in the South Seas—the beach! Already he sensed the fascination of the inevitable; and with this fascination came the idea of haste, to get there quickly and have done. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears.
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