Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here.
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