She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Jonathan threw open the street-door. Turning quickly round, in the hope of discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than distressed—for in spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a good-natured fellow—to perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. " He shook his head. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. ” She breathed relief.
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