Ha! ha! What have I left but despair and madness? Promise me one thing, Mr. ‘You imbecile. “I do,” he answered. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. But a time will come (and that before long,) when our sex will assert its superiority; and, when we have got the upper hand, let 'em try to subdue us if they can. Do not waste time in vain regrets, but let us remove the body, that we may fulfil her last injunctions. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. ‘Imbecile.
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