’ ‘It’s not that,’ the nun said urgently, ‘but I’ve remembered something important. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. . Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. “But why now? Don’t boys know that I am involved with John right now?” “That’s not the way it works, Lucy.
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