There was a gentle rustling of skirts. This helped to restore Ann Veronica’s self-command. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. 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. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct.
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