The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest. —I do not congratulate you on your success. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. Thus, in a few minutes, had this happy family been plunged into the depths of misery. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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