She made no attempt to answer her sister’s question. She replied softly. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. ” He leaned back in his chair as though wearied. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. You are somebody’s secretary, are you not?” It was plain that the subject was distasteful to her, but Ennison, although famous in a small way for his social tact, did not at once discard it. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect.
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