” “I’ll try not to see him again,” said Ann Veronica. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. With a small saw, conveyed to me a few days since by Thames Darrell, which I contrived to conceal upon my person, I removed a spike in the hatch, and, with the aid of some other friends, worked my way out. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. .
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