" "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. In doing so, he had to clamber up the immense heap of bricks and rubbish which now littered the floor, amounting almost to a car-load, and reaching up nearly to the top of the chimney-piece.
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