Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. His friendship seemed a thing worth having. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror.
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