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. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water. He used a most awful word! Then he said, ‘It’s Ann Veronica gone to join her sister!’ ‘Gone!’ I said. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. He looked at his friend. He spoke in quick nervous sentences.
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