“Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. Disperse in every direction. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. 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. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. She looked at Lucy guiltily, wondering if she would be betrayed. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. .
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