Wood laughed louder than ever. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. Their conversation hung. " "That is to say, you wish you had let me die?" "That was the thought. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Mr. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. She interrupted.
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