It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. 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. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. “They have just taken this house from Lady Cellender. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. ” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray.
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