But this was long ago. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. He is Jacques. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. .
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