"She considers her future blasted beyond hope. "Stop thief!" clamoured the rabble behind. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. Listen, Jack. I’M shaken. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. But it was not so ordered. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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