It’s a damned hard thing to do. " "Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know your old friend and countryman?" exclaimed the carpenter. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Posts were offered to all who chose to accept them.
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