Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. She stood up before him, smiling faintly.
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