' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. It's a sorry world," he went on. "Jack has been keeping bad company. You heard her. And, though it's a long time ago, I feel as sore on the subject as ever. ’ ‘You certain? She’s a thought too volatile for my money. Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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