My father thought the latter. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. What you did is called manslaughter, and at the worst there is only a very slight penalty, nothing to be frightened about in the least. A wrathful God was watching him. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. Wood's.
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