"I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. ” “You are his first wife!” The pieces fell together for her instantly.
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