ToC In an incredibly short space of time,—for her anxiety lent wings to her feet,— Mrs. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. It is easy enough to sing these little chansons in an original way—it requires a very different sort of ability to succeed on the stage. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return.
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