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Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. The lady looked them over in silence, and then pouting lips trembled, dark eyelashes fluttered, and in a broken voice, she pleaded, ‘Honoured messieurs, you will not allow this—this pig, to be thus cruel? He cannot arrest me. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer.
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