It’s these damned novels. “Those young men startled me at first, because they knew my name. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. 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. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards.
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