JACK SHEPPARD. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. “I believe so. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. ‘I live in Kent. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee. But I don't understand her; she's over my head.
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