" "And, if you want an additional inducement to do so, I can tell you there's no one —not even his mother—whom he loves so well as you. We know London, and you are a stranger here. This key," he added, taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. You couldn’t help it. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham.
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