"Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. The chair was torture. "He has quite the air of one. \"Ever thought about letting me do something with your hair?\" Not needing an answer, Shari got up and whipped out a vented brush from an overstuffed drawer. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. After occupying himself thus for the best part of an hour, he thought Jack must have given him the slip. His efforts at self-destruction were, however, prevented. Jonathan laughed scornfully. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year.
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