F. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage.
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