Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Their conversation hung. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. ” “And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “and yet he did not know me. She got hysterical. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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