McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins. ” He said mischievously. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. There would be no mercy in this man. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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