The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. “I say!” he said, without any movement. “Thank you,” she said coolly. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. “You!” she exclaimed. The night his execution was therefore passed in a most anxious state of mind; nor was his uneasiness allayed by the appearance of Jonathan Wild, who, after he had been driven from the roof of the jail, repaired to the Middle Stone Ward in a fit of ungovernable passion, to vent his rage upon the prisoner, whom he looked upon as the cause of the present calamity. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her.
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