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Predictably, Charvill turned on him. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. We'll be upon the ban-dogs before they can shake their trotters!" And the alarm was sounded more loudly than ever.
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