It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes. ‘They weren’t no soldiers. Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. Jack was not half your age when he died.
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