Fascination. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. . ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. 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. The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the window. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel.
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