" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Twenty guineas, mind. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not.
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