“When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. "You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. But, if you have any particular fancy for hanging the gentleman, who chose to take the law into his own hands—and I think your motive extremely disinterested and praiseworthy—why, it's just possible, if you make it worth my while, that your desires may be gratified.
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