" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. ’ ‘You say—what?’ gasped Melusine. Fas du tout. Worse than any man. . Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. “Well,” she achieved at last. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats. “You know what? You’re right. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.
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