He gave glimpses of possibilities. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return which they had made to her. Bah. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut.
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