I don’t see how they can be. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. It's of no use. That’s got his nerves to rags. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her.
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