The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. " "That is a far more agreeable one, I must confess," returned Kneebone, with a self-sufficient smirk.
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