As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. ” “I’ve been certain of it for years.
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