T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. Dear me! if there isn't his knock.
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