Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient.
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