Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. ‘You have said you do not wish to hurt me. ‘I do not know the word in English. It is not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow. But we get over it. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate.
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