. . "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die. Then he rallied, smiling a little. " "I hear," said Sir Rowland, moodily. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Into the second, denominated the Bilbowes,—also a dismal place,—refractory prisoners were thrust, and placed in a kind of stocks, whence the name. Canton is all China at night.
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