Thames Darrell. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. By and by he gathered enough courage to lean toward her. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. You've a good deal to go through to-night.
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