Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner. "No," replied Jonathan, with a brutal laugh. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. He turned, expecting to see his wife. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. This incredible scene robbed him of the sense of locomotion.
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