Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. “How do you feel?” she asked. He glanced up at the coachman. She drank it obediently. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. It worked. He has told me sufficient of you—" "My dear," interposed Wood, "for goodness' sake—" "I will speak," screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; "I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her,—and what I think of her. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. I am the cause of his ill-usage. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order.
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