The Procession to Tyburn. She opened and read it at once. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. Then he went on: “—and, indeed, to most of the established things in life is, frankly, unsatisfactory.
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