This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. “Mary!” He whispered loudly. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. But, if you have come to surrender yourself to justice, it is well.
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