“Is this Montague Street, W. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct.
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