Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. “Let us escape,” she said. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. I drew out what I had saved and boarded the first ship out.
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