" "Well, so long as he gets on his feet in the end. Sheppard!" sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,—"Poor Mrs. co. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice.
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