I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. Seizing her hand he covered it with kisses. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. ’ ‘I have no game. ” “You don’t. He heard me; but he never came in to ask what was the matter. She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. She formed a wild resolution, and, lest she should waver from it, she set about at once to realize it. She thought me— filthy. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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