At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. “DEAR MR. . ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. I’ll go after them and kill him. He looked no longer at his wife.
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