The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Politely Ah Cum stooped and recovered the photograph. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance.
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