He turned, expecting to see his wife. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked. The guineas are not for serving your mistress. By-the-bye,” he added, in a suddenly altered tone, “I hope, I trust—that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?” “I—oh no!” Anna said, a little faintly. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. "Don't stir," replied Jack. "These writer chaps are queer birds. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. And you promised to tell me.
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