” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. What can she have done to deserve such a fate? Oh!” They both turned round at Anna’s exclamation. "Bless your soul! d'ye think I'm to be gammoned by such nonsense. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Mr. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand.
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