One night she apparently fell asleep. It ought not to be much. C. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. Tell me I haven’t heard.
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