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. "Spring!—I never knew any. The pistol, it was not loaded. ” “It might become one,” he answered. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. Don’t try. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. "I was just thinking of you Jack.
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