The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. A nurse was at the other end of the room. He would have to make sure of her silence. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. They are not bad girls, but the average tourist has that misconception of them. “Some day,” she answered. Such a beautiful boy he is, but his intelligence is marginal. I'll forgive him if he does.
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