But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. Fixing a ferocious and exulting look upon Jack Sheppard, he exclaimed. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Gerald with a grin. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. In Paddington. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away.
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