He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert.
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