And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. 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.
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