"'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. He rose slowly and extended it. They laughed and talked and stared about them. But it was only six-thirty. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken.
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