I do not blame you for the act. It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. ” She glanced at Brendon, who stood by her side, tall and threatening. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface.
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