"I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. “I can survive on my own. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. I worshipped her and subdued myself. “Very likely. .
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