They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. "It is", seplied Winifred; "have you brought any tidings of Thames Darrell!" "Troth have I!" replied Terence: "but, bless your angilic face, how did you contrive to guess that?" "Is he well?—is he safe?—is he coming back," cried the little girl, disregarding the question. .
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