V. "Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. The theme was a masquerade. "I declare you throw me into an ague. Suddenly she had become afraid. He had no wish to go foraging in Spurlock's trunk. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. I should have gone mad without it. “Well, well, Martin. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. They walked side by side for a time. His manner, however, was as stern and haughty as ever, and his glances retained their accustomed fire. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. They are horrible.
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