" "Stand off, Sir!" exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards. “I murder people, John. “Bother it all!” she swore. "Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir? Answer me that. He returned the locket without comment. I take their life. " "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. She was making it up. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it.
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