" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. There'll be a fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud blow a whole fleet to the devil. "It is droll," he said. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. He replied, \"Want to go sit down somewhere?\" \"Sure.
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