" "May I look at it, Sir!" said Austin, stepping towards him. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. " Sailors, he thought; and most of them the dregs of the South Seas, casting their evil glances at this exquisite creature and trying to smirch with innuendo the crystal clearness of her mind. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. The room in which he was detained—that lately occupied by the Mohocks, who, it appeared, had been allowed to depart,—was calculated to inspire additional apprehension and disgust. "He was hanged that left his drink behind, you know, master," rejoined Sheppard. And I do not know you. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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