" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own.
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