It was a soft, dark night, but the light of a lamp made the objects below dimly distinct, and she rubbed the window-pane to gaze out more clearly, saying laughingly to herself—
“I wonder whether Romeo will come!”
Directly after she pressed her face closer to the glass.
“There he is,” she said, with a gleeful little laugh. “No it isn’t, I’m sure. What does it mean? What is he doing there?”
Part 2, Chapter XIII.
An Eventful Night.
“I can’t go, and I won’t go,” said Artingale. “It’s bad enough to have to be at the church to-morrow and see that poor little lass sacrificed, with everybody looking on smiling and simpering except, the bridesmaids, who are all expected to shed six tears.
“Six tears each, and six bridesmaids; that’s thirty-six tears. I’d almost bet a fiver that those two pre-Raphaelite angels will each be provided with an antique lachrymatory designed by their dear brother, and they’ll drop their tears therein and stopper them up.