Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. It was that somebody had cheated you. "Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Nothing disheartened by this survey, Jack set to work upon the lock, which he attacked with all his implements;—now attempting to pick it with the nail;— now to wrench it off with the bar: but all without effect. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without.
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