1. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living. ” Anna sprang up. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. "You are," replied Kneebone.
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