Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. . ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. It doesn’t matter with me, but there are at least a dozen young women in Mr. I have only just left Wych Street. He waited. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. But it is the truth. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on.
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