Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. There was no mistaking his intentions this time.
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