The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 377: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

360 THE COURT OF LONDON awaiting, In excruciating suspense, the issue of his wife’s errand. Presently she returned, and the moment she made her appearance in the room, Emmerson devoured her with his inquiring eyes. She was an aifected, vulgar woman, of no very prepos- sessing appearance, and even in her poverty still clung to a certain tawdriness which but ill supplied the place of van- ished splendour. Throwing herself upon a chair, she began by complaining bitterly of the dreadful nuisance of having to walk through the crowded streets after having been ac- customed to ride in her carriage, but Emmerson cut her short by demanding sharply whether she had seen his detaining creditor. ‘‘ Yes, I have,” she answered, apparently indifferent to her husband’s acute suspense, which she could not fail to per- ceive, although she was very far from suspecting the crime whose terrors had rendered it so poignant. ‘ Well, what did you tell him, and what did he say? ” demanded Emmerson, sharply. ‘ Will he come to terms? Yes or no? ”’ ‘‘ I can’t say for positive,’ was the response given by his wife. ‘‘ He will send up and let you know presently.’ “Presently! Good God! more suspense, more agony of waiting! ’’ muttered Emmerson to himself, and for a moment he felt that he could have screamed out, that he could have fastened his hands in his hair and torn it-by the roots, as if, indeed, he were going mad; but subduing his emotions with a mighty effort which in itself was agony, he turned again to his wife, saying, ‘‘ Tell me everything, what you said to him, how he took it, how he looked, the very words he uttered in reply.”’ | ‘“ Lor, my dear, how very particular you are!” said his wife. ‘‘ One would really think that instead of being only in a lockup house you was in Newgate, and instead of stand- ing the chances of going to the King’s Bench you was afraid of going to the scaffold. But gracious goodness, Emmerson, don’t look at me like that. You positively frighten me.”’ ‘“‘ Tt’s nothing — nothing,” said her husband, in a low, hoarse voice, and indeed he felt that his looks were ghastly at the moment, for the sensations which tortured him were the concentrated essence of ten thousand agonies. “ Tell EORMIELIOO KS (E(0) m