The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. " "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.
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