Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. No girl with a face like that….
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