Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. Then he rallied, smiling a little. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father.
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