That was supposed to be Madame Valade. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him.
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