"He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him. Anna raised her eyes. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. “You poor little girl!” he cried. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Wood will be here presently. Imbecile. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. As he was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a considerable impression on the feelings of the youthful offender. . “For great passions, for great accomplishments.
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