Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. ‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte. We ourselves have been similarly circumstanced. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place.
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