"These writer chaps are queer birds. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. She opened her mouth and inhaled water. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. He then looked around him with some curiosity; and, as the thief-taker was occupied in giving directions to his attendant in an undertone, ample leisure was allowed him for investigation. She almost submitted to this ending of her adventure. ’ ‘Gosse,’ corrected Lucilla. \" Lucy replied meekly. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose.
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