The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. He is coming here to tea. You see, I kidnapped poor Jack and made him promise to send me word if you went careering off anywhere. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured.
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