He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He hadn't played fair. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. Do you accept it?" "Dear Thames!" "Forgive this ill-timed avowal of my love.
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