Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. The air was crisp and dry. I have taken bullets and lived, and even a silver one wouldn’t do much. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. Oh God! pardon me. "Your father said so before you," replied Jonathan, malignantly; "and yet it has tarried thus long. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision.
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