He knew. Some day, when the rewards of literature permit the arduous research required, the Campaign of the Women will find its Carlyle, and the particulars of that marvellous series of exploits by which Miss Brett and her colleagues nagged the whole Western world into the discussion of women’s position become the material for the most delightful and amazing descriptions. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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