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82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. Or run me through. He did not particularly care. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. .
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