"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. You make a game with me, imbecile. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. It would not be wise to ever see your family again if you do not wish them to come to harm. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Sometimes she missed her cue and nodded affirmatively when the gesture should have been the reverse; and Prudence would send her a sharp glance of disapproval. After passing Tottenham Court Road, very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour Street it was open country.
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