I care not. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast.
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