‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. "Intruding!" echoed Mrs. " "What proof have you that I am?"—was the return bolt. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. But then he began to take steps, and, at last, strides to something more and more like predominance. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. “That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about. To be frank with you, I have an affront to requite, which can be settled at the same time, and in the same way with your affair. .
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