At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. " "By Jack Sheppard!" exclaimed the thief-taker. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light.
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