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. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city.
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