Suppose our proper place is a shrine. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. Then he sensed the trap. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. Jonathan Wild.
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