Wood. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. He’s been 274 lookin’ a little down lately. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. But this was a vicomte’s sister. Wood, in indignant surprise. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. A quick flush stained her cheeks. But it's confounded inconvenient. Unlocking a cupboard, he then took out some cold meat and other viands, with a flask of wine, and a bottle of brandy, and began to eat and drink voraciously. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. "If Jack would come to my house, I'd contrive to hide him," remarked a buxom dame. Sheppard, with a frenzied laugh. Wood, sharply.
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