"During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped. She thought me— filthy. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. He looked no longer at his wife. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. ‘Damnation! Too late. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand.
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