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Her long arms handled the sword with a memorized ease and grace. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. "I will administer it. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. Her nurse says she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast. How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. ” He sat like a man turned to stone.
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