The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. But, urged by his wife's cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child's life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. None presented themselves to save him from that return. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. No idea that you were here, though. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
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