In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. "Your audacity passes belief," cried the latter, as soon as his surprise would allow him utterance. “I confess it. To have the present lengthen into years! But in a few hours she would be upon her way, far lonelier than she had ever been.
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