She turned off the light and approached the window. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared. At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely.
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