“Come sit with me, beautiful. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. “But your sister,” he said. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. The only circumstance which served to awaken a darker feeling in his breast was, that his implacable foe Jonathan Wild had survived the wound inflicted by Blueskin, and was slowly recovering. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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