“I shall never marry,” said Ann Veronica, resolutely; “I’m not the sort. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. In the struggle her cap fell off. There was a deep groan, and the sound of a fall within. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. There were two. “Hello, Vee!” he said. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. Ousted from his old retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern, conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the Seven Cities of Refuge. Nicholas is dead. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling.
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