"There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery. But oh, how weary I am! I know. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. He has been lodged in every round-house in the metropolis, and has broken out of them all, and boasts that no prison can hold him. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. I'm a bit daffy about music.
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