One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would "defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. Wood, contemptuously, "he'll never mend till he comes to Tyburn. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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