“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. ToC Jack Sheppard's first object was to free himself from his handcuffs. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. .
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