"I have killed her," exclaimed Jack, dropping the bar,—"by your advice, Thames. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Mr. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. The latch had not fully caught. You say that this gentleman was with you?” “I was,” Brendon answered, “most providentially. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. " And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the two assistants. Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. His mother's scream seemed again to ring in his ears, and he was so deeply affected that, fearful of exciting attention, he was about to quit the sacred edifice, when he was stopped by the entrance of Thames, who looked pale as death, with Winifred leaning on his arm.
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