“Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. I freely forgive you. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. In spite of the tumultuous joy which agitated him, the bridegroom could not prevent the intrusion of some saddening thoughts, as he reflected upon the melancholy scene which he had so recently witnessed in the same place. 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. Anna lied to you, I lied to you. It was locked.
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