CHAPTER XXII. "If you've done wrong, confess it, and I'll forgive you!" "I don't deserve to be forgiven!" returned Jack, bursting into tears; "for I'm afraid I've done very wrong. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. As it is not, however, our intention to furnish a complete catalogue of these curiosities, we shall merely mention that in front of them lay a large and sharp knife, once the property of the public executioner, and used by him to dissever the limbs of those condemned to death for high-treason; together with an immense two-pronged flesh-fork, likewise employed by the same terrible functionary to plunge the quarters of his victims in the caldrons of boiling tar and oil. "You should be glad to be made an honest woman. (“No, no. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly.
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