The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you what hardships I have undergone—to what frightful extremities I have been reduced—and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty subsistence for this child's sake, —if you could feel what it is to stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me, and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the wretched,—if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,—if you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would break my heart. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. Where is Sir Rowland?" "In the library, your ladyship. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently.
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