"If you doubt my word, woman," replied the carpenter's wife, coldly, "ask Mr. ” He cried traitorously. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. "You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Anna, you shall not go. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. "That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded.
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