Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. Blood, they say, won't come out. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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