"Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. Every word you utter puzzles me. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. But it would serve.
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