She was making it up. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend.
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