"I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. He tried again. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. "Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?—silence gives consent, eh?" Mrs. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage.
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