These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers. But at the word “home” she turned again. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. Ah Cum had no business taking him into the city last night. We leave England to-night. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom.
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