A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Her little white hand stole across the table. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. " "I hope such a thing never will happen again, my dear," observed Wood, mildly, "but, when it does, it will be time to consider what course we ought to pursue. “There is my aunt,” she said.
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