Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. She withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you.
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