While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. "Oh! Jack! Jack!—you little know what a price I've paid for you!" "Well, I'm glad those women are gone," remarked Shotbolt. CHAPTER VIII. Mother! do you know what you do? Would you sell yourself to this fiend?" "I would sell myself, body and soul, to save you," rejoined his mother, bursting from his grasp. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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