“What is the good of pretending?” she said. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. It was the last thing she felt like drinking. She and I were very close. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. Sheppard, struggling to get free. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people.
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