"Deuce take you, Peter!" he exclaimed; "I say—the devil fly away with you, my boy!—curse me!—a nice pickle you've made of yourself, with your infernal Revolutionary notions—your digging and blacksmithing, your walking-tours—"
"Where is she, Sir Richard?" I broke in; "pray, where is she?"
"She?" he returned, scratching his chin with the corner of a letter he held; "she?"
"She whom I saw last night—"
"You were asleep last night, and the night before."
"Asleep?—then how long have I been here?"
"Three days, Peter."
"And where is she—surely I have not dreamed it all—where is Charmian?"
"She went away—this morning."
"Gone!—where to?"