“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw.
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