The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” he said. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. Or, if this goodlooking young fellow will only say the word, I'll go with him. "Promise me that. ” She looked at her toes.
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