" "Shall I tell you a real story?" "Something you have seen?" "Yes. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. " "To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. 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. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness.
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