For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. Mild, you know, and boon. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. “Damned Rascal!” he said. You want to think for a time, to be free for a time.
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