"Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. “You know that I have always hated this!” She 264 looked down at Michelle’s pitifully bloody head, her body barely hanging on to its breath. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own.
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