' 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. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. Sheppard, fleeing from him to the farthest corner of the room. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. The blaze, however, was sufficient to reveal to the thief-taker the features of his intended assassin. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour.
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