"Of course not; and I don't, and I'm not going to."
"You have done more towards it than you suppose."
"Pooh, pooh! she's not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creature you imagine: she's a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body; apt to be rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main, and ready to take things as they come."
"Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what she is now."
"I know—she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and white face: now, she's a poor little bit of a creature, fading and melting away like a snow-wreath—but hang it!—by Jupiter, that's not my fault!"
"What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she's only five and twenty."
"It's her own delicate health, and—confound it, madam! what would you make of me?—and the children, to be sure, that worry her to death between them."
