She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. The arrest of this person is of consequence to me.
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