Sheppard," cried the carpenter's wife bitterly; "and, I repeat, Bedlam's too good for her. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. I've despatched him to the New Prison. She turned to face him and he kissed her. ’ ‘You surprise me. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. "In with him!" "Ay—ay, yer hon'r," cried the foremost chairman, lending a helping hand. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. I can't bear it. But at the word “home” she turned again. She slipped it calmly into her pocket.
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