Shotbolt," cried the turnkey, "I've good news for you. Anna said nothing. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. Horrible details recurred to her. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. "Where did you find it!" asked Wood. "Ha!" he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as his glance fell upon the portrait; "how came this into your possession, boy?" "Why don't you answer, sirrah?" cried Wild, in a savage tone, and striking him with the silver staff. This is my friend, Mr. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend.
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