“The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. He seemed to be. Wood fared still worse. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth.
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