"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. 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. ‘But of course. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. “But if my manner tells! I cannot help it if that shows. There isn’t. ” Mrs. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Have you sent off the note?" inquired Jack.
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