Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle, followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “What a little brick!” he murmured. Not at all.
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