" CHAPTER VI. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. I won't give him a chance.
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