"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. "Thank you, Mrs. But I'll not believe it of you. My very sentences stumble and give way. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. At length, the body was brought towards him.
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