“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. What’s that?” They both stood listening. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. F. Keep up the clamour for five minutes, and I'll finish it. Your husband could have told you that. 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.
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