She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's wife, still less what is she now. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating.
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