remain to be now accomplished. So glad to see you at liberty again!
Mind you let us know where you settle, and take care of yourself; and
do recognize the importance to the whole animal economy of daily walking
exercise--do now! Did I give you Annabella's love? She's so well.
Good-by."

Away went Mr. Batterbury to finish his walk for the sake of his health,
and away went I to visit my publisher for the sake of my pocket.

An unexpected disappointment awaited me. My "Scenes of Modern Prison
Life" had not sold so well as had been anticipated, and my publisher was
gruffly disinclined to speculate in any future works done in the same
style. During the time of my imprisonment, a new caricaturist had
started, with a manner of his own; he had already formed a new school,
and the fickle public were all running together after him and his
disciples. I said to myself: "This scene in the drama of your life, my
friend, has closed in; you must enter on another, or drop the curtain at
once." Of course I entered on another.

Taking leave of my publisher, I went to consult an artist-friend on my
future prospects. I supposed myself to be merely on my way to a change
of profession. As destiny ordered it, I was also on my way to the woman
who was not only to be the object of my first love, but the innocent
cause of the great disaster of my life.

I first saw her in one of the narrow streets leading from Leicester
Square to the Strand. There was something in her face (dimly visible
behind a thick veil) that instantly stopped me as I passed her. I looked
back and hesitated. Her figure was the perfection of modest grace. I
yielded to the impulse of the moment. In plain words, I did what you