" Mr. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. She fidgeted and looked away. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. I care not.
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