"To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but, perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor father suffered. “What are we going to do?” said Capes, with his eyes on the broad distances beyond the ribbon of the river. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. I said to myself, ‘this will come. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred.
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