Then a long reverie, such as she always fell into when alone and unoccupied. The face was older, but not greatly changed from that of the girl who fought her dread fight with temptation, and lost it, in the lodging at Islington, who, then as now, brooded over the wild passions in her heart and defied the world that was her enemy. Still a beautiful face, its haughty characteristics strengthened, the lips a little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery in her eyes. She asked no one’s pity, but not many women breathed at that moment who knew more of suffering.
For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the northern counties. In accordance with the modern custom—so beneficial to actors and the public—their repertoiy consisted of one play, the famous melodrama, “A Secret of the Thames,” recommended to provincial audiences by its run of four hundred and thirty-seven nights at a London theatre. These, to be sure, were
