I know he is dead. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. Or else I would have finished him. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments.
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