Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Caution forced her to speak calmly. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. Look at it, I say. But, what is it! What did you promise?" "To offer you my heart, my hand, my life," replied Kneebone, falling at her feet.
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