gutenberg. Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out "Mother!" "Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed. Wagstaff. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Death belongs to God, young man.
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