‘It is nothing. And now let's go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier, Muntmeester. " "All right; and thank you. ” “I cannot let you go on,” Ennison interrupted. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. " "I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—"I know you will. What would happen when next morning she returned to Morningside Park? He couldn’t turn her out of doors.
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