But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters.
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