’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. ‘It is not possible. Wood, despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations—rather than he should live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. Warren’s Profession furtively with Hetty Widgett from the gallery of a Stage Society performance one Monday afternoon.
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