I bring you tidings of an old friend. Wood; "here's a pretty to-do about nothing. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Sheppard is, without your information, Sir. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene.
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