Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. What's the idea of the black border?" "My father recently died, sir. ’ ‘You would speak of the house?’ ‘Many’s the time little Miss Mary would say her papa meant for her to have it, she having no brothers and sisters at all—when we played together I mean, she and me and Joan Pottiswick. But I want to know whether in such an event you would stand by me?” She held out her hand. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling.
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