Hence!" "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, in a voice, the tones of which were altered by his very anxiety to make them distinct, "listen to me. Sharples," replied Quilt; "lock 'em up. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother.
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