Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. “Come this way,” he said. Entranced, he stared at the name. ” She shook her head gently. “And you?” “Same thing. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness.
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