"No, indeed; why should you?"
"I would thrash you if I could, for the pure pleasure."
"No doubt; no doubt."
"But it stands to reason that I can't. God, when He gave me power of mind, gave you power of body."
"And a little common sense along with it, my friend. I'm generally able to see my way, big as I look. Come; what's the good of arguing. You're quick at writing, I know, and there's the paper."
Then George Robinson did write. The words were as follows;—"I renounce the hand and heart of Maryanne Brown. I renounce them for ever.—George Robinson."
On the night of that day, while the hammers were still ringing by gaslight in the unfinished shop; while Brown and Jones were still busy with the goods, and Mrs. Jones was measuring out to the shop-girls yards of Magenta ribbon, short by an inch, Robinson again walked down to the bridge. "The bleak wind of March makes me tremble and shiver," said he to himself;—"but, 'Not the dark arch or the black flowing river.'"
"Come, young man, move on," said a policeman to him. And he did move on.
"But for that man I should have done it then," he whispered, in his solitude, as he went to bed.