If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Assured, if he remained much longer where he was, he would inevitably perish, Wood recommended himself to the protection of Heaven, and began his perilous course. “Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. I can imagine nothing more pleasant in life than to help you, because I know it would pay to help you.
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