Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Do they, Bess?" "Certainly not," replied the young lady appealed to, "especially about their sons. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds.
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