He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. 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. They were hailed as celebrities, the three of them. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. . “She thinks that Missy is trying to turn me into a punk or a Goth.
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