Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of light material, and stood near the corner where the women's dresses had just been thrown down, quite out of sight of all the party, except Mrs. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive.
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