“Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. " "You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir," urged the widow. She turned back into the hall. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua.
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