Upon the steps leading to the gates of the church stood two persons whom Jack instantly recognised. John Sheppard. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. ’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon.
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