Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII. Well, I don't blame you on that ground. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black.
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