They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done.
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