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" "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. " Sir Rowland's brow darkened. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “Your father, of course,” he said, “must come to realize just how Splendid you are! He doesn’t understand. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. They litter up the room. .
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