” “Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. "Where is he?" he cried.
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