Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. It is as if my lips had been sealed about them. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
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