" "I know not how to act," exclaimed Jack, almost driven to desperation. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. "Got the rooms mixed. Because every mistake you make, for every new mishap, Joe, I take a finger. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. 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. A friend of mine, Ogilvy’—I suppose that’s Ogilvy & Ogilvy, who do so many divorces, Vee?—‘was speaking very highly of it—very highly!’” He smiled into her eyes.
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