"Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. “Lucy Albert, sir. . “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. . By your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard's will, you are aware,—and, therefore, I need not repeat it, except for the special purpose I have in view,—you are aware, I say, that, by this will, in case your sister Aliva, died without issue, or, on the death of such issue, the property reverts to Constance and her issue. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. 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. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. "Only Jack's two wives—Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot," replied Austin, laughing.
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