“It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. ’ But I made sure it was you.
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