To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. Only she sent me a message, and together we found a cottage for her to stay at. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. ” She said, searching for her brassiere under his bed. Blest with a fond husband, surrounded by every comfort, you have never been assailed by the horrible temptations to which misery has exposed me.
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