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And that was, that the woman Anna Bonard, repined of her act in leaving George Mullholland, to whom she was anxious to return that she was now held against her will; that she detested Judge Sleepyhorn, although he had provided lavishly for her comfort. She learned, too, that high up on Anna's right arm, there was imprinted in blue and red ink, two hearts and a broken anchor.
"It was in this dark, cavern-like den in this mysterious caldron of precocious depravity, rioting unheeded in the very centre of a great city, whose boasted wealth and civilization it might put to shame, if indeed it were capable of shame, I first met the child of beauty, Anna Bonard. Yes! the Anna Bonard you now see at the house of Madame Flamingo.
This girl, whose elastic step and erect carriage contrasts strangely with the languid forms about her, is Anna Bonard, the neglected, the betrayed. There passes and repasses her, now contemplating her with a curious stare, then muttering inaudibly, a man of portly figure, in mask and cowl.
Anna Bonard interrupts by saying, peremptorily, she has nothing to tell one so guilty. To be thus rebuked by an abandoned woman, notwithstanding she might be her own child, wounded her feelings deeply. It was like poison drying up her very blood. Gloomy and motionless she stood, as if hesitating how best to make her escape. "Woman! I will not betray your coming here.
And here I see by the sign that Anna Bonard is not your name. The name was given you by a wizard." "You are right, old man," speaks Anna, raising thoughtfully her great black eyes, as the antiquary pauses and watches each change of her countenance; "that name was given me by Hag Zogbaum, when I was a child in her den, in New York, and when no one cared for me.
Cecilia, a lady of exceedingly fair but frail import: this loveliest of creatures-this angel of fallen fame this jewel, so much sought after in her own casket-this child of gentleness and beauty, before whom a dozen gallant knights were paying homage, and claiming her hand for the next waltz, turned out to be none other than the Anna Bonard we have described at the house of Madame Flamingo.
Cecilia, a lady of exceedingly fair but frail import: this loveliest of creatures this angel of fallen fame this jewel, so much sought after in her own casket this child of gentleness and beauty, before whom a dozen gallant knights were paying homage, and claiming her hand for the next waltz, turned out to be none other than the Anna Bonard we have described at the house of Madame Flamingo.
Snivel affects a tone of moderation, whispers in the old man's ear, and says: "Mind you tell the fortune of this girl, Bonard, as I have directed. Study what I have told you. If she be not the child of Madame Montford, then no faith can be put in likenesses. I have got in my possession what goes far to strengthen the suspicions now rife concerning the fashionable New Yorker."
The white, jewelled fingers of her right hand, so delicate and tapering, wander over and smooth her silky black hair, that falls in waves over her Ion-like brow. How exquisite those features just revealed; how full of soul those flashing black eyes; her dress, how chaste! "They call me Anna Bonard," she speaks, timorously, "you may know me?
Then she was known as Anna Bonard " "Anna Bonard!" exclaims Madame Montford. "Then truly it is she who now lives in Charleston! There is no longer a doubt. I may seek and claim her, and return her to at least a life of comfort." "There you will find her. Ah, many times have I looked upon her, and thought if I could only save her, how happy I could die.
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