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“You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. But, this sad affair disposed of, I will not rest till I have avenged my murdered parents. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. “I never dreamt!” she said. My mother shall never degrade herself by a connection with you.
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