She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. “How would you prevent it?” she asked. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. " "Why not?" "I am a thief, a hunted man. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.
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