"There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Wild's busy. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. He has a way of sitting on people. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me. It's of no use. ToC "How do you mean to act, Sir?" inquired Trenchard, as soon as they were left alone.
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