It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. She stepped backwards. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. He would certainly welcome McClintock's advent. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. " Here she began to blubber loudly for sympathy. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand.
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