"To-morrow it will be mine. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. A sinister thought edged in. She stuffed her violin in its case and rushed into the hallway towards John, who stood outside of 118 with his arms crossed. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. "This Enschede—the missioner. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion.
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