"If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,— you are as unfortunate as wicked. We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Life waits for us. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew. ‘Very useful, of course. While you talked I was only making our plans. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "You know my fixed determination," he added in a low tone, as he passed the carpenter. ” She paused, and he waited for her to speak.
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