“One has such ridiculous ideas of the wicked common people and the beautiful machinery of order that ropes them in. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. She stood up before him, smiling faintly. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.
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