But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. He seemed to have expected them. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. “Home, of course,” she answered. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. They almost made me feel like they were mine. She went to her own table and sat down. .
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