“Forty guineas a week. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. The old fool’s been working on you through your sister to keep off the stage. All we have to apprehend is a rescue. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously.
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