” “I sent a telegram, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. I’ll try to stay as long as I can. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. That’s where you go wrong.
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