Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Arrived at the latter place, Jonathan, who, meanwhile, had contrived to liberate his attendants from their bonds, drew up at the Six Bells, and hiring a couple of horses, despatched his attendants in search of Jack Sheppard, while he proceeded to town. They went down the great staircase of the building, and, while she sought in her mind for a beginning, he broke into appreciation of her simple dress and selfcongratulations upon their engagement. And now you know. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her.
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