A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. 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. Now, Sir. ‘It is not your affair. ” “Lady Ferringhall! Anna!” he exclaimed. Wood, furiously. ” He said. Thanks. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up.
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