His vicious abusiveness vanished. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. Wood, "it may be poisoned. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. One day they were at tea in the laboratory and a discussion sprang up about the question of women’s suffrage. "Oh! if I had known this," he exclaimed, "what guilt, what remorse might have been spared me!" "Repentance comes too late when the deed's done," returned Wild, bitterly.
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