"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. . It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. Don’t imagine that. " "I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—"I know you will.
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