She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. " "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. ” Anna shook hands with Brendon—a young man also, but older and more selfpossessed than Sydney Courtlaw. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. .
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