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. “I suppose, daddy, you’ve no objection to my going on with my work at the Imperial College?” she asked. As they entered the room beyond, a fierce growl was heard. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. Then she moved towards the door.
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