Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. Kneebone, respecting the lawless career of Jack Sheppard, and struck with the probable fate that awaited him, the young man, as he contemplated this scene, fell into a gloomy reverie. John knew better. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song.
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