"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. He laughed. "Now—begin. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand.
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