Never mind. Gerald pressed against the wall, and signalled Roding to go to the other side of the door. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. “Mere sensuality. That's a most damnable lie; and when she finds out, 'tis then she will not forgive. I hate what I am.
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