“I know nothing about your wife. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. As Mrs. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. He began munching his water-chestnuts—a small brown radish-shaped vegetable, with the flavour of coconut—that grow along the river brims. How she needed him! Next moment, she had wrenched open the door, and was confronting her guard.
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