In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. None this end. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Then for a time she sat very still. You come to visit a completely different gentleman at his home. Thames sprang to his feet, and half drew his sword, while Wood, removing his spectacles to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, exclaimed in a tone and with a look that betrayed the extremity of surprise—"Jack Sheppard!" "Jack Sheppard!" echoed the maid. Horribly skinny he was, and short too. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home.
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