ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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