Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered.
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