It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “Well,” she said. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. We stopped for a moment to watch it, and almost immediately it was turned out. Without you, we might have had some trouble. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. You would steal from me then the only man I ever cared a snap of the fingers about. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in.
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