“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. She has contrived to keep out of my sight up to this time, and I've no doubt she'll keep out of it altogether for the future. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered.
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