ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. And me, I know very much of soldiers. Come every day to see you was flourishing. And Pottiswick, of course.
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