"Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. There was a strained, eager expression on his face. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. It was bare of any furnishings. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end.
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