Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. “Why not? They tell me that London is impossible till after ten, and I want my first impressions to be favourable. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again.
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