“Call me Cathy, John. 1. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Rats and things crawling all over. He still watched her and questioned her. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. I'm not interested in him. ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously. Not like my father. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered.
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