Don't be alarmed by their manners, Mr. Wood, sinking into a chair, and fanning herself violently,—"what a fluster you have put me into with your violence, to be sure! And at the very time, too, when you know I'm expecting a visit from Mr. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. Leave the rest to me. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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