“A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. " "I won't reproach you, Jack," said the other, sternly. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. " "Decidedly so," replied Edgeworth Bess; "and I'll take this opportunity, while Jack's back is turned,—for he's grown so strangely particular,—of easing him of his snuff-box.
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