She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. "Put up your blade, Sir Rowland," rejoined Jonathan, resuming his former calm demeanour, "King James the Third will need it. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood.
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