Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs. “Well,” she said. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. There was, it might be said, a double illumination.
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