He has often told me that if he could play sober, he would go to America and reap a fortune. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. “Can’t you SEE how things are?” she said. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief.
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