"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. "Here, take this and get the letter and open and read it. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. Lucy sighed. ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested. You have nothing more to fear from Wild. You love Ennison. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. He is already married. ’ ‘Do not say so. Like stealing. I hate children.
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