Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "There's only one way out of the muddle, that I can see. Mr. The opiate has done its duty. Especially when they wear cologne. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. Womanhood is sacred to me. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields.
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