He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. "It is droll," he said. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. " "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you.
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