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There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. Wood set off at full speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost to take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till his strength completely failed him. "I'll make sure work this time," he added, about to repeat the blow. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels.
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