"Joan! Joan!" vociferated he, "open the door, for God's sake, or I shall be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say. 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 volatile temperament—yes, a volatile temperament,” Mr. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian.
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