Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. ‘You are mad, if you think he will give you a sou. Come with me, Langley, and bring the lantern.
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