"I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. " "Your husband?" "No. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I told you no good would come of it. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable.
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