"Scoundrel," comes from Sir Barry's clenched teeth.
"In those two cases my friend, you are in my charge." The police officer steps forward.
"Cannot arrangements be made to let him remain here? You see death is not far off." Mr. Litchfield feels so sorry to see his late partner reduced to such distressing circumstances.
"Pity does more harm than good to such men as him," Sir Barry declares. All inducements were unavailable, and Cyril Fanchon was removed to prison. His wife, utterly heart-broken, took her children and went home to her father, and Edward Litchfield was proclaimed a free man. Old friends gathered around, glad to find their friend had not been unworthy their esteem.
"Aunt Adeline, you had better go right in the kitchen, for Zoe is in the preserve kettle, and I am afraid your plums will be scarce if they are not looked after, by some one less fond of tasting them than she is."
Aunt Adeline is out in the garden gathering fruit: peaches, ripe and luscious, and pears, rich and mellow.
"There, give me the basket, and I will finish." Dolores daintily holds up her white skirt, and climbs up the stepping stones, the better to gather those aunt Adeline could not reach.
"Say, Dolores, please throw me down that big, ripe peach up there, just this side of your head. Oh dear." Dolores does as requested.
"Zoe, child, what is it now?" she asks anxiously.
"I burnt my tongue, that's what's the matter, if you want to know. I wish I'd let the old preserves alone." She stands there leaning her pretty plump arms on the fence and watches her sister.