Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared.
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