"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. She made an abrupt personal appeal. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. It’s well hidden, miss. ” Miss Miniver followed with an expression of perplexity, her mouth shaped to futile expositions. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street.
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