Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. Every eye was fixed upon the prisoner. “I don’t know, John. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. ‘Aye, sir. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock.
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