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She hastened past. Or appeared to do so. Turning quickly round, in the hope of discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than distressed—for in spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a good-natured fellow—to perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Also she had tried him as a dragoman and as a gendarme, which seemed the most suitable of all to his severely handsome, immobile profile. She wondered why he was so distinctive, so unlike other men, and it never occurred to her for some time that this might be because she was falling in love with him. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Then I think I remarked that science was disgracefully under-endowed, and confessed I’d had to take to more profitable courses. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered.
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