And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. " There was no danger in admitting this fact. ” Anna leaned back in the chair and laughed softly.
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