Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. "I knew he would," replied the Amazon. They were properly brought up, and sat still and straight, and took the luck fate brought them as gentlewomen should. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go.
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