His tone was kind and sympathetic. "By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. Heaven alone knows why. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. "What weight are these irons?" asked Jonathan, coolly addressing one of the partners.
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