He was mad. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. "Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. His smile faded.
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