“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. It is but a wild threat. I’ve got no feminine class feeling. The minute he discovers Roding here, he’ll know something is up.
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