Unconscious of the interest he excited, and entirely occupied by his own thoughts—which, if his bosom could have been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and fears—the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as possible at the back of St. Trust you. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream.
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