"Yes, had it been that for which you seem so very anxious."
"Anxious! not I, believe me."
"Well, this is from a lady."
"The deuce—you quite interest me. I can perceive that it is penned on pink paper, a little flourished, but without signature. It is from Paulina, poor girl! I can imagine her writing it, and as Byron says—
"'How tremulously gentle, her small hand—'"
"How can you run on thus?" I asked, imploringly. "Fie upon you, Jack, after all the misery we have wrought to these poor people."
"Well, perhaps you are right and I am wrong. I beg pardon; but the letter—what is it about?"
"Only the safety of our lives."
"Our lives—indeed—how so?"
"Read it."