“I’ll bring it to-morrow. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. All the world before you, all the ologies. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him.
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