"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. " "Oh! do not say so," replied his wretched parent. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. No, not one little bit.
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