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S. " "Six," he corrected. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr. He got off on it. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. "What does Mr. " "I should like to satisfy myself on that score," rejoined Wild, drily.
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