. "What's the matter?" he cried. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. . “It is positively no use, Anna,” she declared, appealingly. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. With such qualifications as she possessed, two chief channels of employment lay open, and neither attracted her, neither seemed really to offer a conclusive escape from that subjection to mankind against which, in the person of her father, she was rebelling. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him.
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