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“I will not rob you of your coffee, most dutiful of sisters!” she exclaimed. “Act three. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. "Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. She would have to leave very soon. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths.
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