" "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. She is no longer mine; she is yours. ’ ‘To you,’ she said angrily. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. We’re handfuls. —What do you know of Thames?— Where is he?" "Don't agitate yourself, dearest girl," rejoined the woollen-draper; "or I shall never be able to commence my relation. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet.
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