Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you.
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