"Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. The Red Room. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday.
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