Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland.
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