‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. Your life is like a funeral March. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date.
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