“—but this cannot be. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered.
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