It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. . "That's a good story, lad. What was his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him a light was burning. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases.
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