He grew even harder. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. There was no rush. Let him have his honeymoon.
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