Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. Marry, come up! I've been a great deal too charitable. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion. 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. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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