"The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. His face turned a dark crimson. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. ‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth.
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