This time she was indeed beaten. But, urged by his wife's cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. And Pottiswick, of course. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it.
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