She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. Get on with it, then. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure.
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