In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. I know why. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me.
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